The vanity of the old gossip was raised by her commission, which, after all, she did not understand, since she had no suspicion, even now that Evadne’s visitor was Lord Raymond.  Perdita dreaded a fall from his horse, or some similar accident—­till the woman’s answers woke other fears.  From a feeling of cunning blindly exercised, the officious, if not malignant messenger, did not speak of Evadne’s illness; but she garrulously gave an account of Raymond’s frequent visits, adding to her narration such circumstances, as, while they convinced Perdita of its truth, exaggerated the unkindness and perfidy of Raymond.  Worst of all, his absence now from the festival, his message wholly unaccounted for, except by the disgraceful hints of the woman, appeared the deadliest insult.  Again she looked at the ring, it was a small ruby, almost heart-shaped, which she had herself given him.  She looked at the hand-writing, which she could not mistake, and repeated to herself the words—­“Do not, I charge you, I entreat you, permit your guests to wonder at my absence:”  the while the old crone going on with her talk, filled her ear with a strange medley of truth and falsehood.  At length Perdita dismissed her.

The poor girl returned to the assembly, where her presence had not been missed.  She glided into a recess somewhat obscured, and leaning against an ornamental column there placed, tried to recover herself.  Her faculties were palsied.  She gazed on some flowers that stood near in a carved vase:  that morning she had arranged them, they were rare and lovely plants; even now all aghast as she was, she observed their brilliant colours and starry shapes.—­“Divine infoliations of the spirit of beauty,” she exclaimed, “Ye droop not, neither do ye mourn; the despair that clasps my heart, has not spread contagion over you!—­Why am I not a partner of your insensibility, a sharer in your calm!”

She paused.  “To my task,” she continued mentally, “my guests must not perceive the reality, either as it regards him or me.  I obey; they shall not, though I die the moment they are gone.  They shall behold the antipodes of what is real—­for I will appear to live—­while I am—­dead.”  It required all her self-command, to suppress the gush of tears self-pity caused at this idea.  After many struggles, she succeeded, and turned to join the company.

All her efforts were now directed to the dissembling her internal conflict.  She had to play the part of a courteous hostess; to attend to all; to shine the focus of enjoyment and grace.  She had to do this, while in deep woe she sighed for loneliness, and would gladly have exchanged her crowded rooms for dark forest depths, or a drear, night-enshadowed heath.  But she became gay.  She could not keep in the medium, nor be, as was usual with her, placidly content.  Every one remarked her exhilaration of spirits; as all actions appear graceful in the eye of rank, her guests surrounded her applaudingly,